She’ll strip for this dollar but I promise she’s no stripper,
Unless you consider her lamp post a pole and her next three johns the tippers.
She’s been abusing so long her arms look like mold,
And her veins are so tracked I call them true sinkholes,
She hate when people see those, graduated to aiming between toes,
And even between transactions she’s active; legs between clothes.
nonetheless that’s a person,
no matter the resemblance shared with zombies,
laying on the back twice might equivalent new Abercrombie,
& Fuck Fitch, he only used to be “the shit”
Until Slick became pimp and George became dealer…
She became ho, fiend and what ever life feeds her.
I need her…
To be that sweet little girl before she grew up,
Sick on the hospital bed in denial of what she threw up.
Blood can’t be as thick as it used to be,
In the constant presence of H-I-…
V-ehicles serving dual purposes, hotels and hot spots; maybe judicial wires but no wifi,
Life ain’t what it seems so she lives that High.
Foundation does a better job of covering that lie; them bruises and those symptoms.
One more serving between toes,
When will she stop???
Maybe the song sings it wrong and nobody cares,
Not enough to question let alone stare,
We all know what she does, that truth, synonymous with what she wears.
Lifestyle of magnums and lifestyles sometimes and that grants fear.
Is it wrong for me to love her,
even though she only loves my fares?
***Image found at http://www.thesun.co.uk***